


Thirty Five

by signifying_nothing



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: Aged up characters, Canon Divergent, M/M, even if they don't have clothes on, grinding on one another doesn't deserve an m rating, the weirdest getting together story ever
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-26
Updated: 2017-07-26
Packaged: 2018-12-07 09:54:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,671
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11621151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/signifying_nothing/pseuds/signifying_nothing
Summary: Murasakibara Atsushi doesnotlike Midorima Shintarou. The feeling is mutual.Everyone knows it.





	Thirty Five

**Author's Note:**

> more self indulgent nonsense  
> since murasakibara is seven, and midorima is five, then when they multiply they are thirty-five  
> i just wanted an excuse to write these difficult personalities together  
> also i like injuring midorima  
> he's fine, though. he's fine.

Murasakibara Atsushi does _not_ like Midorima Shintarou. The feeling is mutual.

Everyone knows it.

The two of them are more often than not at one another's throats over everything or absolutely nothing. Midorima is too uptight, Murasakibara is too relaxed, and any efforts made to break them up just ends with the animosity ramping up higher until one of them has to leave practice.

It continues this way until they're no longer part of the same team.

~

At the last game of the season—Yosen against Shuutoku, sixty-three to sixty-five in the last four seconds of the fourth quarter, Murasakibara's legs _don't_ quit on him.

He slams the ball to the floor with his right hand—his body knocks Midorima to the ground. Both of them fall. There is no foul. He looks down at Midorima and wonders how the gap between them became so great. Once upon a time back at Teikou, Midorima had been nearly able to look him in the eye. But now, on the ground, he's smaller than even Akashi, and the two feet between their faces seems like an insurmountable distance.

But then Midorima is looking away and grasping at his left elbow and panting for breath. Then Takao is running over, skidding to the floor, and Murasakibara gets up, backs away a step to watch Midorima's left arm dangle limply at his side as they line up. _Thank you for the game!_ they all shout, but something in Murasakibara's chest has twisted unpleasantly. He hates it.

~

It's not a sprain, technically. It's just an ache, but it still hurts to move his left arm too much. Midorima refuses a ride home in the rickshaw, waving Takao off with the rest of the team. He wants to walk and to _think._ He'd never imagined that playing Murasakibara would leave him feeling so... _Helpless._ Against his height, the length of his arms and legs, the strength of his play since he decided to get serious. _Man proposes, God disposes._ God had given Murasakibara all the raw elements of a professional player and now that he was learning to use them, he was practically unbeatable.

He hauls his bag over his shoulder and struggles to zip his jacket. Two big hands appear from nowhere to hold the jacket, to pull the zipper up. Midorima looks up at Murasakibara and bites his tongue.

The taller man says nothing.

Midorima walks away.

~

Murasakibara is off his game for nearly three weeks. He can't help it. He keeps thinking about that last, desperate play—the ball landing in Midorima's hands from halfway across the court, the bend of his back and legs, the way he'd been sweating, green hair sticking to his face and neck, his glasses slipping down his nose. He'd looked like a god, for a moment, and Murasakibara, in his panic, had forced that god to ground with one fell dash of his hand.

 _God-killer,_ he thinks to himself, as he dribbles and runs laps and shoots and defends and pretends not to notice how Himuro is staring at him. He hates how guilty he feels. Basketball is a competition. He won fair and square.

But somehow it feels like he cheated. What's that thing Midorima is always saying. _Man proposes, God disposes._ Maybe Murasakibara had been the god that day, and Midorima just the man. It's too much responsibility.

When Kuroko proposes that they all get together again, he refuses.

~

Midorima isn't very good with words. He can't stop thinking about how Murasakibara had come up to him after the game, had zipped up his coat with a green lollipop sticking out of his mouth, his eyes roaming over Midorima's body as though checking him for injuries. Nothing serious had been hurt, really. Just his pride. Midorima hadn't been able to stop thinking about it all the way home. Takao even brings it up at practice two weeks later. _You've been really off, Shin-chan. Did something happen?_

What can he say? That the rivalry he'd been battling had come to an end with one swift fall of judgement? That he'd never thought Murasakibara could beat him at a game where he did everything he could to win? How stupid did that sound. How idiotic, how _childish._

He doesn't give Takao a response. But he has a sinking feeling that's all the response Takao needs to formulate his conclusion which, given his track record, is probably as accurate as anything Midorima could tell him.

~

They meet by accident, at a bus stop in Tokyo. Murasakibara is going to visit Akashi down in Kyoto for a few days, desperate to get out of the house, as it were. He spots Midorima from a mile away, with how tall he is, his green hair. He's not wearing his uniform, or even his school clothes. He's dressed casually, in a hoodie and jeans and Murasakibara stares at him like he's never seen him before. He _has_ never seen him before, in such casual clothes. Even at their get-togethers every January and June Midorima is wearing sports clothes.

“Midochin,” he says, though it comes out weak. He wonders if Midorima's elbow is okay. He wonders why he cares. They're not on the same team. He's not supposed to care.

Midorima turns. He looks at Murasakibara and Murasakibara feels something in him _twist._ It doesn't feel good. It feels _bad._ Midorima looks... Like he used to back in middle school, like he's holding everything in. That was one of the things Murasakibara hadn't liked about him—Midorima was so in control of himself. It was bad for a person to be so uptight. It hurt them inside, it made them explode when the slightest thing went wrong, and that was bad. It scared Murasakibara.

“Murasakibara,” he says, and Murasakibara chews the inside of his lip.

“Where are you going?”

“What does it matter?”

“Midochin,” he protests, almost whining. Midorima's face hardens further, and he steps away. Murasakibara grabs him by the arm before he can get out of reach. “Midochin. Is your arm okay?”

“It's fine,” Midorima bites out, and Murasakibara lets go, pulling his hand back to himself like a burned child.

Then Midorima is gone. Murasakibara almost misses his train. When he arrives in Kyoto, Akashi asks him what's wrong, and Murasakibara frowns, crosses his arms, and wonders.

~

Nerve damage, the doctor had said. From the bones grinding together in the fall. It's just a little pinch, a tiny line of numbness running down the top of his left arm that will eventually heal, but it effects his game, and everyone can see it. He passes more often, makes those miracle threes a little less frequently.

Seirin crushes them in the quarterfinals. Kuroko is beside himself after the game, jogging up to Midorima, who is grasping his left arm and gritting his teeth under his towel.

“Midorima-kun.”

“Go away, Kuroko,” he bites out.

“What's wrong?”

“I said _leave._ ”

Midorima doesn't want his sympathy. Doesn't want his pity or his concern. _Man proposes, God disposes._ God took away the gift and no amount of work Midorima puts into his left arm has done any good. He wants to quit. He wants to run away.

He wants to cry.

~

Up in the stands, Murasakibara feels his heart do that clenching thing again as Midorima grabs his elbow and doesn't let go. He jerks out of his seat, and not even Himuro's voice calling out behind him is enough to make him stop running down the stairs.

He manages to catch Midorima before he walks into the locker room. He grabs him by the jacket, pulls him into an empty hallway and stares down at him. His eyes are wide and startled, and Murasakibara thinks he's never looked so pretty, not even when he was sweating and red-cheeked, trying to make the shot that would win his team the game last year.

“Midochin,” he says, and Midorima tries to jerk away from him. Murasakibara doesn't let go this time.

“Go away,” Midorima hisses out. Murasakibara shakes his head, reaches to hold that messed up elbow in one big hand.

“Midochin, I.”

“Let _go,_ Atsushi!”

He blinks at the tone of Midorima's voice. It's weak and sad as it uses his given name, and Murasakibara doesn't let go. Midorima's head drops and Murasakibara stands there, helpless, blocking Midorima into the wall, not letting him out.

“Let go,” he whispers, and Murasakibara pulls him in tight, long arms around his shoulder and waist. He's taller than Midorima now, by nearly a head. Midorima's face sits against his chest and in the dark of the hallway, in the quiet secrecy of Murasakibara's team jacket and broad body, Midorima bites into his own lips and hiccups once, soft.

Murasakibara isn't sorry about winning the game last year. He's not sorry about blocking the shot that would have cost his team the national championship. But he _is_ sorry that he hurt Midorima, that the injury is apparently still bothering him. He _is_ sorry about that.

“I'm sorry, 'Tarouchin,” Murasakibara whispers, unsure of what else to say. Midorima's hand grabs hard in his jacket and Murasakibara thinks of the time when Himuro grabbed him, _you have everything I want, and you don't even use it._

They stand there in the hallway for as long as it takes for someone to realize that Midorima is missing. When Murasakibara moves away to let him go to his teammates, he levels a glare at them. They should be taking better care of Midorima. He needs a team, after all. He can't support himself anymore. Not alone. He needs them.

~

Midorima walks home again. He thinks about Murasakibara's broad chest and shoulders blocking him against the wall, hiding him, and hates himself for feeling perhaps a little comforted by the way he'd been caged.

~

Murasakibara scowls all the way back to Akita. Not even Himuro dares to talk to him. He stalks back to his dorm, closes the door, and throws himself to the bed with so much force that the wood groans, threatening to buckle under his weight.

~

They both show up to the January reunion. Midorima's arm is getting better. Murasakibara breathes a sigh of relief, and Midorima tries not to show his pleasure at being able to shoot a three so high that not even Murasakibara's long arms can reach it. The ground is solid under their feet again. Things are back to normal.

~

Except that they're not.

Midorima finds himself offering his home to Murasakibara, so he doesn't have to catch an overnight train back to Akita. Murasakibara accepts and he can feel everyone staring at them as they walk back toward Midorima's family house. Murasakibara greets Midorima's family properly, slouches as little as possible, and bedtime comes quickly. Murasakibara is... Surprised, though that bothers him, that Midorima has laid out two long futons for him—long enough that his tall body will be completely on the padding. There is a huge blanket out, as well. Midorima flushes when Murasakibara looks at him, and for a moment they are fourteen again, arguing, red-faced and annoyed at one another, each for besting the other in their chosen field of combat.

“You should sleep,” Midorima says, his voice somewhat tense.

“Midochin,” Murasakibara says, sounding as sleepy as he always does. “How is your arm?”

“It's fine.”

“Is it stiff?”

“I said it's fine.”

“Let me see,” Murasakibara reaches out with his long arms and takes Midorima's left arm in his hands. He feels out the muscles, feels the way the elbow is still trying to heal from all of Midorima's weight collapsing down on it last winter. He feels out where he's sure it still hurts and rubs carefully, feels Midorima relaxing very, very slowly.

“...I didn't mean to hurt you, Midochin,” Murasakibara mumbles, embarrassed. “I'm s. Sorry.”

“I know you didn't,” Midorima says. He's taken off his glasses, and he's squinting at Murasakibara, his green eyes narrow. Murasakibara smiles a little. “That... Feels good, Murasakibara.”

“Good,” he replies, slowly easing up on the massage until Midorima slowly pulls his hand away. “You know, Midochin,” he says, wishing he was better with words, wishing it wasn't so hard to talk to Midorima. They've never gotten along. They're so different—Midorima works so hard in addition to his natural talent. Murasakibara has so much talent that he doesn't have to do much to succeed in basketball, though he's painfully inept in a lot of other things, though he's been getting better. With Himuro's help he's getting better at this.

“I wish we'd. Been friends, more.”

“At all, you mean,” Midorima says. In the quiet lamplight of his bedroom, the conversation feels surreal and safe. They are shielded, hidden away. “We were never... Never friends, Murasakibara.”

“Yes we were. We should have been better, tried more,” Murasakibara mumbles, hiding in his lavender hair. He pushes it back behind his ear, looks up at Midorima, who still hasn't put his glasses back on. “Can we... Can we try? To be friends now?”

“Do you want to?”

“I think so.”

For a long moment they look at one another. Murasakibara can't help but smile, then laugh at how Midorima keeps squinting at him. He looks like a cartoon character trying to see through a spyglass. “You look silly, Midochin,” he laughs, even as he lays down on the large futon that takes up most of the floor in Midorima's bedroom.

“You look like a white and purple blob,” Midorima sniffs, getting under the covers. “Shut up and go to sleep.” They're both down to boxers and clean t-shirts, and Murasakibara wiggles down under the blankets of the futon. He blinks when Midorima speaks after the light has been turned off.

“...I've missed you, Atsushi,” Midorima whispers. It's so soft Murasakibara almost thinks he imagined it, until his hand reaches up the bed and Midorima's left hand clenches around his fingers, the feeling of tape and calloused skin comforting beyond measure.

“...Missed you too, 'Tarouchin,” he replies.

~

They'd kissed once, in middle school.

They'd been arguing, after everyone else had left. It had been their turn to clean up the gym, and they'd been arguing, and it had escalated into a shoving match with no one there to stop them. Murasakibara was bigger, but Midorima had more muscle build, so when Murasakibara pushed him into the large rack of basketballs Midorima had grabbed him by the shirt and dragged him after. They'd hit the shelving , all the balls had fallen down as they fell down, too. Murasakibara had landed on top of Midorima, his forearms on the floor on either side of Midorima's skinnier body and they'd been so close. Closer than they had been when Murasakibara's weight pushed Midorima to the ground.

They had stared at one another. Each of them panting, staring, breath hot on one another's lips and Murasakibara—who had never been the type to deny whatever he _wanted_ to do, had lowered his head and pressed his mouth to Midorima's. Midorima had jerked in surprise, one hand coming up to... To shove Murasakibara away, probably, but instead his hand fisted in his shirt and they kissed messily, inexperienced but full of passion, though the source was undefinable.

 _'Tarouchin,_ Murasakibara had whispered when they parted, licking at his own lips, at Midorima's lips, which tasted like milk candy. They kissed again, and in his dream, they do more than kiss.

Murasakibara wakes up in the dark with a shiver, and the ghost of a memory against his body. He's sweating, panting, swallowing dryly as he sits up, stares out into the darkness.

“Atsushi?” Midorima's voice is raspy and low with sleep and Murasakibara swallows hard. He's never been the type to deny himself whatever he wanted to do, so he turns to the bed. Takes in the way Midorima is sitting up on one elbow, and gets up on his knees. He reaches to tuck back messy green hair, he stares in the darkness at the barely-visible lines of Midorima's face and, after a moment, his fingertips touch those pink lips—just as soft as he remembers.

“...Atsushi?” Midorima asks, and his voice has gotten even quieter. Murasakibara gets up a little more and, using his arm and hand for a guide, leans in to kiss Midorima on the mouth. There is a sudden intake of breath, but Midorima doesn't pull away. The little wet sounds of kissing seem impossibly loud in the dark, quiet room that muffles them. Murasakibara feels like he's... Floating.

“What are you doing,” Midorima asks, when Murasakibara pulls back to breathe.

“I don't know,” Murasakibara admits. He leans in to kiss Midorima again, and gives a little gasp of surprise when Midorima's hand touches the back of his neck to keep him in close. Their tongues slip together. Murasakibara feels something in his chest loosen and fall away, like a lock clicking open. He crawls up onto the bed beside Midorima. He tucks one arm under Midorima's neck, the other resting on his waist. In the dark, beneath the blankets, they kiss until Murasakibara falls asleep.

~

In the morning, they don't talk about the night before. But Murasakibara makes waffles, and puts blueberries in Midorima's, instead of chocolate chips. Midorima has a sweet tooth but doesn't like chocolate, after all.

~

Takao's commentary is becoming unbearable. He knows something happened between Murasakibara and Midorima, but he isn't sure of what, and like hell Midorima is going to tell him _anything._ Even he doesn't know what happened, not really. Just that Murasakibara had gotten into his bed and they'd kissed and kissed and when he'd woken up they'd been spooned together. Not many people made Midorima Shintarou feel _small._

Most confusing of all was the way Murasakibara had looked at him as he waited on the platform for his train. Like Midorima was a particularly delicious treat he was keeping himself from eating so he could save it for later. He still feels the memory of Murasakibara's lips on his knuckles, the soft lick of his pink tongue, the kiss, the soft suck. Midorima had dreamed of that, had dreamed of Murasakibara in ways he hadn't...

He grits his teeth and shoots the ball. Sinks a full-court three.

Doesn't think of Murasakibara Atsushi pressed up warm to his back and making quiet little noises in his sleep. Doesn't think of that mouth on his hand, of Murasakibara's dark eyes, of the way his smile had been small and secret and almost shy, _come visit me soon, 'Tarouchin._

Doesn't think of the way that iteration of his name makes his heart squeeze.

~

After graduation, it takes all of Midorima's nerve to fly up to Akita to... To stay with Murasakibara for a few days. They're going to go sight-seeing, they're going to... Spend time together. Midorima has told _no one_ where he's going. Partially because he's afraid of someone (Takao. _Kise._ ) making commentary, but also because if... If this blows up in his face. He wants to be able to be alone to deal with it.

Murasakibara greets him at the airport. He's impossible to miss, being so tall—and Midorima feels something in his chest skip when Murasakibara waves at him with a bright, sweet call of _Tarouchin! Over here!_ As though Midorima couldn't see him standing there in his puffy grey coat and pale blue bandana.

It's not cold, but it is definitely cooler than Tokyo, and Midorima is glad he brought his own jacket. He tries not to jump when Murasakibara slides their fingers together, when the other man holds his hand. It's. Alarming. And nice. But _alarming._

~

Murasakibara is being very careful. Himuro had told him to be careful. Midorima is tense and nervous, even Murasakibara can feel that—but it fades as they walk. Murasakibara tells Midorima about Akita, about the school he's just graduated from, about the university he's going to. By the time they get to the hot spring they're staying at, Midorima is relaxed and Murasakibara is happy about that. They even go to the spring together, and Murasakibara gets his first very good look at Midorima's body since... Since middle school, really. He's tall. Narrower than Murasakibara. His legs are less built, but his arms are solid. His chest is tight, his belly flat. He's... Prettier than Himuro, Murasakibara thinks. A lot prettier. Especially when his glasses are sitting on a rock and his hair is wet, his cheeks pink with heat. He's so cute.

“What is it, Atsushi,” Midorima asks, and Murasakibara flinches, knowing he's been caught staring.

“Um, nothing,” he says. “Nothing, 'Tarouchin.”

Midorima looks at him and even without his glasses, he looks unconvinced. Murasakibara looks down at the water and fiddles with his hands, trying not to be embarrassed and nearly jumping out of his skin when Midorima is suddenly in front of him, then—then _on him,_ sitting on his thighs.

Murasakibara makes a choking sound, but Midorima stays right where he is. He reaches out and cups Murasakibara's face and for a moment, it's all the bigger man can do to keep _breathing,_ because Midorima is so _close._

Then. Then there is a soft, anxious kiss pressed to the corner of his mouth. It is slow and careful and scared, and Murasakibara is nothing if not a creature of instinct: so he wraps his arms around Midorima's waist and pulls him in and the chaste kiss becomes... Not chaste. Not at all.

~

Midorima makes a mental note to send Takao a fruit basket or something, for that stupid piece of advice he's always giving: _just go with it, Shin-chan!_ Murasakibara is holding on to him, and they're kissing, and it's deep and wet and _hot,_ and Midorima's hands are tangled up in Murasakibara's hair— _Atsushi's_ hair—and the bigger man is making soft little moaning noises, wiggling as Midorima kisses down his neck, across his jaw. Midorima can feel Murasakibara getting hard, can feel him panting for breath more than he can hear it. He gathers up that lavender hair and holds it in one hand, the other cupping the side of Murasakibara's neck.

“Atsushi,” he murmurs, remembering that Murasakibara is probably inexperienced. Not that he's any better, mind, but he's... Done the research, as it were.

“'Tarouchin,” Murasakibara whines against his lips, craning his neck for another kiss. Midorima spreads his thighs and angles his hips and slides closer. He jerks when their groins rub together— Murasakibara's length is _big,_ thick against his belly. Midorima feels something very long-denied and lusty rising up at the back of his consciousness—that insidious little voice that reminds him of Kise, the one that makes commentary about how good it might be to just let Takao fuck him in the rickshaw one night, or how brutal Kagami Taiga might be during sex. The voice that wonders what might have happened back in middle school, if the two of them hadn't broken away from one another at the sound of Akashi calling them. Midorima had stayed on the ground a moment longer than necessary to catch his breath, back then.

Now he doesn't have to. He slides closer, kisses Atsushi, the one man who makes him feel small, and shivers when Murasakibara grabs him, yanks him close, pushes against him in an impatient rush. Always so impatient.

“Calm _down,_ Atsushi,” he says, and Murasakibara grumbles against his neck. “I'm not going anywhere.”

“Promise?” Murasakibara asks, and Midorima swallows hard. Wonders if he means it.

“I promise,” he says, and Murasakibara looks up at him. They stare at one another for a long moment, before Midorima leans down and kisses Murasakibara on the mouth, soft and sweet and inevitable as the tide coming in, as winter bleeding into spring.

~

Murasakibara carries Midorima back into the room they're staying in. His thighs are trembling a little in Murasakibara's hands, and his breath is coming hard and fast, even though he's had time to calm down. He'd insisted that they had to go back to the room before they did anything else. Murasakibara had whined a little, but done as he was told. Now, they're back in the hotel room and he can lay Midorima out on the bed and look at him, really _look._

“You're so pretty, 'Tarouchin,” he says, bending to kiss Midorima's neck. He shivers hard, body trembling under Murasakibara's hands. “You're so hard.”

Midorima grabs him, yanks him down onto the bed and rolls his body so he's perched on top of Murasakibara's hips, their erections grinding together. Midorima claps a hand over Murasakibara's mouth. He whines again.

“You have to be quiet,” Midorima whispers, and Murasakibara nods with a pout, reaching down to hold Midorima's backside in his hands as the other man gets down onto his elbows and... and _rocks,_ pushing his hips down and forward, grinding skin to skin. It's so... _Wanton._ It's so sexy, and Murasakibara can barely believe that Midorima Shintarou is _capable_ of such sensuality. He's always so uptight, he's always so—

 _Private,_ Himuro had said. _I just think Midorima-san is very private, Atsushi. He probably really treasures things like touching and sensuality, they probably mean a lot to him! That's why he doesn't do it very often._

But here he is, on top of Murasakibara, rocking his hips and shaking, breathing little pants and moans against his mouth, fingers clenching desperately in Murasakibara's pale hair.

“Feels good, 'Tarouchin,” Murasakibara whispers, kissing Midorima's pale neck. “Do it more.” His hands cup Midorima's backside and pull him down, drag him up his body. Midorima jerks forward and buries his face in Murasakibara's neck. He's gasping for air. Murasakibara bends his legs, lifting Midorima's body, and starts to thrust up against him. Their skin is warm and slick, it feels really good to be so close. This is what should have happened, Murasakibara thinks. This is what should have happened in middle school when they'd knocked into the basketball rack and they'd kissed.

“Atsushi,” Midorima's voice is high and light, his eyes are closed and Murasakibara can feel his mouth on his neck, kissing, breathing, saying his name. “Atsushi, it—I—”

“'Tarouchin,” he whispers, grinding up harder, almost frantic, he wants this, he wants it so badly, he's wanted it for so long and he hadn't even really been able to comprehend it—

Midorima starts to gasp and Murasakibara grabs him by the back of the head and drags him in for a kiss. They steal breath from one another's lungs as hot wet splatters onto their bellies, making the drag slick and warm and Murasakibara spreads his thighs and thrusts up and holds Midorima in place, biting down on the other man's lip.

For a few long seconds they just jerk against one another, struggling to breathe. Midorima drops his weight on top of Murasakibara and Murasakibara laughs softly, rubbing his hands up and down Midorima's back. “S'okay, 'Tarouchin,” he says, his face in Midorima's green hair. “C'n stay fr'now. Y'r not heavy.”

“Atsushi,” Midorima whispers. His hands are petting Murasakibara's hair and chest, touching very gently. Murasakibara is comfortable, and feeling lazy, so he wraps his arms around Midorima's waist and holds him in place. They can... They _will._ Talk about it tomorrow. Himuro said it was important that he and Midorima talk about their... Their _feelings and expectations._ But for right now, Murasakibara just wants to enjoy the way uptight, straight-laced Midorima Shintarou is laying sprawled on top of him, panting into his throat, holding on to him. It feels good. It feels... Really good. Better than he'd ever thought it might, even in his deepest, most secret fantasies.

“Night, 'Tarouchin,” he whispers. He feels a little kiss on his neck.

“Good night, Atsushi.”

Every time Midorima says his name like that, like it's something special, it feels like a win. It feels like victory, like returning home, triumphant. It feels _good._

Murasakibara likes that, a lot.

~

(Midorima likes it, too.)

 


End file.
